


“It’s actually cake.”

by caravaggiosbrushes



Category: The Terror (TV 2018), The Terror - Dan Simmons
Genre: Cake, Canon Compliant, Eventual Smut, Francis POV, Gay, Hand Jobs, M/M, Rough Kissing, Slash, Smut, Twitter Prompt, captains to lovers, it’s all joplittle’s fault..., making out in Terror Great Cabin like pros, my way of celebrating JFJs bday, these kids...., this started as one thing and finished as something else entirely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:53:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25525468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravaggiosbrushes/pseuds/caravaggiosbrushes
Summary: They both look at it, not moving, not talking."So, what-" Starts Fitzjames."Anyway it's-" Says Francis, at the same time. They make eye contact.Francis lowers his eyes once again, feeling stupidly exposed for what he's about to say: "Cake."Another brief moment of stillness follows. Fitzjames keeps looking at him, confusion clear on his face. "Cake?"
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier & Commander James Fitzjames, Captain Francis Crozier/Commander James Fitzjames
Comments: 5
Kudos: 43





	“It’s actually cake.”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [infandomswetrust](https://archiveofourown.org/users/infandomswetrust/gifts).



> Hello hello! I wanted to write something for Fitzjames’ birthday so I asked on Twitter and [@actual_cyborg ](https://twitter.com/actual_cyborg)suggested this as prompt: "[It's actually cake. ](https://twitter.com/actual_cyborg/status/1285859042989166593?s=19)" :}
> 
> I’m also posting this under the #JFJ207 hashtag created by [@sailingsouthernseas ](https://sailingsouthernseas.tumblr.com/post/624215224903450624/james-fitzjames-birthday-week-extravaganza-post)!
> 
> In my head this is set somewhere in between sir John's death and Carnival. 
> 
> PS: Thanks so much to [ Dundy’s voice ] [my bro ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burningfreeze/pseuds/burningfreeze)for beta-reading and editing this!! ;_; it was incredibly useful and I’m sooo grateful for your work ♥We’re gonna fight English past tenses together ehehe.
> 
> Enjoy! ♥ 

It was not his idea.

It was Thomas' idea. 

Since Thomas' ideas always turn out to be either incredibly genius, or massively bad, Francis should have known this was about to head in the direction of the latter, but somehow he was hoping to be proved wrong: for once, he has decided to try and act like a clement Captain- which is something he always tries to do anyway, but he’s aware it doesn't come off as obvious as he hopes.

So, when one night Thomas said, out on _Terror_ 's deck: "We should bake a cake for the birthday boy," then proceeded to chuckle at Francis’ confused expression, only then specifying that “I mean Fitzjames. His birthday’s next week, what kind of Captain are you if you don’t remember?”, Francis has only snorted at his teasing.

"Bet he's used to big celebrations,” Thomas went on, “This must be so _terribly_ boring to him. You really should do something about it, Captain." Francis simply shoved him on his shoulder and pushed the thought away, feeling annoyingly envious at the thought of all the grandiose parties Fitzjames surely used to be invited to in the past, where he must always have been widely acclaimed as the shiniest star of the night.

They didn’t talk about it again anyway, so that was it.

Except that it wasn't it, because apparently Lieutenant Little had overheard their conversation and the following day there he was, standing in front of Francis, grasping his hat over his chest as if afraid someone might snatch it away from him, saying: "Captain, if I may, I actually think that it would be a good idea."

Francis was very focused on finishing his whiskey, so he didn't follow his speech immediately. 

"What would be a good idea, Edward?"

"A cake." The lieutenant replied, nipping at his bottom lip, "For Captain Fitzjames' birthday, next week." He explained, "I heard what Mr Blanky said yesterday and I know it was probably meant as a passing comment, but I think that could actually be helpful."

Francis, at that point, has stopped contemplating his whiskey to give the other man his full attention. "Do you?"

Little nodded, "For everyone's spirits, not just Captain Fitzjames. I was mostly thinking about the men," he explained, "It could be beneficial for them. Having a sense of normalcy, however feeble."

Francis has given it a thought: for how unusual that kind of celebration would be, their situation was everything _but_ usual,- so perhaps it could make sense. "Do you really think that?"

"Well, it's not the most effective idea ever, but could it have even a small positive impact on the men's mood?" Little was looking at him, a tiny hint of hope in his eyes, "I think so. It would give them an excuse to celebrate- or well, do something as close as possible to it."

Francis nodded, thinking about this proposal. "Jopson?"

The stewart's head jerked up at his name. He clearly wasn't expecting to get involved in their conversation. "Sir?" He looks at Edward for a moment, then fixes his gaze on Francis.

"Well, what do you think about this?"

"Me, sir? I, well," Color was creeping up on his cheeks, but he has quickly recovered, offering a smile, "I think Lieutenant Little might have made a fair point, sir." He peered briefly at Edward, "It would give everyone a moment of relaxation, no matter how short and fragile it might be. Everything that can be helpful to any of us right now, well: I'd take it."

Francis nodded and Jopson suddenly jumped in place, as if only then remembering something of vital importance, "Oh, sir! Of course this doesn't mean we wouldn't do it again on _your_ birthday-"

Little’s eyes widened in realization, "Of course Captain, I'm sorry-"

Francis lifted a hand before any of them could say another word, "God, spare me. No surprises for me, ever." 

Both Jopson and Edward looked slightly guilty and relieved at the same time, like two children caught doing something prohibited; Francis ached in equal parts with awkwardness and the need to reassure them that it was no issue at all. "You can give me something for my birthday and it will be not telling anyone when that is. Understand?"

Jopson nodded straight away, "Of course, sir," followed by the lieutenant’s "Sir."

"Now," Francis stood up, "Captain Fitzjames and myself have quite different tastes in social gatherings, so I'm probably right to think that as much as I'd loathe the thought of being _celebrated_ ," he almost spitted that word out, "on the day of my birth, well he would probably like it, if not love it." 

He looked expectantly at them.

Little was the first one to nod, "I shall think so, yes."

"That would be correct I imagine, sir." Jopson followed, with a polite smile.

"Well then," Francis swallowed down the remaining of his drink, "Jopson please, tell Mr Diggle he will have a cake to prepare next week."

  
  


So the idea has been put out there, commented, approved and set into motion, so quickly that Francis still feels disoriented about it. 

It felt absurd one moment and perfectly sensible the next second, so he just let it be. After all, what trouble could a cake cause?

It isn't completely senseless, Francis thinks, and Fitzjames, being the peacock that he is, will surely love to bathe in the metaphorical spotlight. 

Birthdays are ignored when on duty, apart from those of shipboys, but certainly Captain's birthdays aren't on the list of things to be celebrated. But as Jopson and Little have both observed, at this point everything that could be useful should be tapped to lift the men's spirits. 

So this is how Francis finds himself in the kitchens of _Terror_ , even if it's not a captain's place to be, but he was curious to see if Mr Diggle has indeed took upon himself the trouble of baking a cake for James Fitzjames. Apparently he did, and not just one cake of course, but an entire batch of it, to feed both ship's crews. 

And this is also how Francis asks his cook for a piece of it, so that "I will bring it to Captain Fitzjames myself... No, it's no trouble, Mr Diggle, don't worry about it. Jopson is nowhere to be seen anyway, I'll do it." 

And this is of course, purely because he’s heading to the Great Cabin where he has left Fitzjames some time earlier, not because he's dying to see the face his Second will make upon seeing the dessert. 

(For Francis secretly hopes to make him feel even just a little bit embarrassed: he'd love to see that perfect façade of a face shatters under the surprise, even only for a moment.) 

(But hopefully for longer than that).

So Francis was feeling almost confident about this. That was until he reached the Great Cabin’s door, where _Erebus_ ' captain was likely still bent over the maps covering the table.

The plan made sense until five minutes ago.

Right now, Francis doesn't feel confident _in the slightest_. 

It's a very stupid idea. 

A _cake_ ? In the middle of the Arctic? _Really_? A shitty cake, baked in a lurid oven? For _James Fitzjames_ , a man used to the best kind of refined food and amber whiskey and shining parties? Christ. Why did Jopson and Little tell him this was a good idea?

It's a wretched idea. Offering the crews a different kind of dessert and a generic excuse to change things up and cheer them up is one thing, but bringing a bloody piece of that (at best) mediocre cake to James Fitzjames? It's something else entirely. But now Francis is here, standing in front of the door with this damn covered plate in one hand and he can't just leave and go back to the kitchens with it, because what would he say? _I felt like an idiot at the thought of offering my Second a piece of cake?_ Not a possibility.

He knocks at the door.

Fitzjames is not bent over the maps anymore, but sitting quite relaxed in his chair, one long leg crossed over the other, chin resting on his hand, his half-drunk glass in the other.

Francis only has a second to close the door behind himself before Fitzjames eyes the plate and immediately asks, "What's that?" followed by a, "Oh no, _please_ " and an exaggerated groan, and if Francis was already regretting coming here with this damned cake in hand, well now he's absolutely loathing it. This reaction is not exactly what he was aiming for.

God, what an idiot he's been.

"It's just-"

"More pudding, of course." James interrupts him before he can say another word. Christ, he's insufferable, and at times like this even _more_ than usual. 

James sighs, "How can Mr Diggle feed us even more pudding after the past days? I won't be able to eat anything even remotely sweet for the next week, at least, or my teeth will fall out." He laughs with that deep, manly voice of his, and Francis feels the nape of his neck burning in embarrassment and anger at himself. An idiot. A grand, total idiot.

He straightens his back and fixes his gaze higher than Fitzjames' head, avoiding his face. Avoiding his judgment.

"Sorry to have bothered you." He's already turning around, when James' chair screeches loudly against the floor.

"Wait." 

He speaks at Francis' back, "What is it then? You have to at least tell me."

_I don’t have to do a goddamn nothing._

"Don't worry-"

"Am I right?" He interrupts him _again_ , "Is it pudding?"

Francis takes a breath and turns to face him. "Actually no, if you really want to know, it's not damn pudding." His voice is harsher than what he was planning to use.

"Ah, that's wonderful news," Fitzjames lets go of a sigh, relieved, "Well then, I will have it."

"I'm afraid not." He snaps. God, he just wants to leave and if Fitzjames doesn't stop talking-

"Why not?" If Fitzjames doesn’t stop _interrupting him_ \- "What's the matter with it, Francis?"

"Nothing at all." He has to put a closure to this conversation as soon as possible, "I shall leave you now."

"Come on, Captain Crozier, what are you hiding there?" 

Francis’ blood quickens up at his easy, confident smile. He makes sure to look at him straight in the eye this time, "Do not use my title out of turn like that."

Fitzjames' sardonic smile finally leaves his face, all at once. He swallows.

"My apologies. You're right." He gives him a brief nod, "I spoke out of turn."

"Apologies accepted." Francis sighs, then places the plate on the table. It lands with a distinct _tac!_ of china against wood, that resonates in the quietness of the Cabin.

They both look at it, not moving, not talking.

"So, what-" Starts Fitzjames.

"Anyway it's-" Says Francis, at the same time. They make eye contact. 

Francis lowers his eyes once again, feeling stupidly exposed for what he's about to say: "Cake."

Another brief moment of stillness follows. Fitzjames keeps looking at him, confusion clear on his face. "Cake?"

"Yes, this," Francis gestures toward the incriminated plate, "It's actually cake. Not pudding."

"Oh." His Second says, looking almost astonished by the answer, "I see. A nice change."

"Yes.” Francis says, because he has no idea what he’s expected to say after he’s presented a plate of cake to his Second in command in order to celebrate his birthday.

Christ, he needs a drink.

He turns his back to both the damn dessert and Fitzjames to pour himself a glass, glad to be able to hide from the other man’s gaze even if for a brief moment.

The sound of cutlery against china gently fills the space with tiny crystalline sounds.

Then of course is joined by Fitzjames' deep voice: “Why cake?”

Yes, why cake, indeed? Francis wishes he could tell him why. He doesn’t want to explain, doesn’t know how to say that he has pictured Fitzjames’ face upon receiving a piece of cake prepared especially for him, under Francis’ order, and that in this picture of him, Fitzjames had a deep blush on his cheeks and nose, and his eyes were gleaming with surprise and glee and yes, even with a little bit of discomfort and awkwardness at having been caught off guard like that by Francis, which is something that could only happen in his imagination.

“Because,” Francis says instead, “Today’s your birthday. From what I’ve heard, at least. I discussed with Thomas and Edward and they both thought it was a nice excuse to give the men something to celebrate.” He takes a generous sip of his drink, mostly to avoid his eyes.

Fitzjames has his fork suspended mid-way to his mouth, “I see.” He puts it back down, cake untouched. 

Then something in the cabin shifts: it could be Fitzjames' intentions; it could be the Arctic air, playing tricks on them both; it could be this hell of a place and everything it has put them through; it could simply be that Francis has spent so much time thinking about his Second during these most recent weeks, that he can't tell reality and imagination apart anymore. Perhaps this is simply happening in his mind.

Whatever it is, it happens in the form of Fitzjames lifting his gaze up on Francis and speaking, in a voice that Francis has never, not _once,_ heard from him, but has heard directed at himself, in other ladies' voice and especially in Sophia's, that day that’s burned into his memory for eternity, when she has placed her soft lips right against his ear and whispered, in that low, silken voice: “Make me yours, Francis”. Well, with that same low, inviting voice, James Fitzjames now asks him: “Are we celebrating my birthday, then, Francis?” 

It shouldn’t be as exciting as it is, because Fitzjames is simply asking a question, and he’s simply looking at Francis as if hoping Francis would say ‘yes’, and not just any ‘yes’, but one that means ‘yes: yes, we are celebrating _you_ , so let me praise _you_ , let me offer myself to _you_ and let me be what you want me to be _for you_ , just tonight, only tonight.’

So Francis closes the distance between him and the table at which Fitzjames is sitting. He puts his glass down, next to the plate with the untouched piece of cake, looks at Fitzjames straight in his eye and says: “Do you want us to?”

He can clearly see and almost _feel_ the warm wave of deep blush that creeps up on Fitzjames’ neck, slowly coloring his face.

He wets his lips, “Does it matter what I want?”

"Yes.”

“To you,” He insists, face tense with apprehension, “Does it matter, to you?”

“Yes.”

They stare at each other, feeling the fragility of the moment in every heartbeat.

Then Fitzjames tilts his chin up, a bit to the side, and his hair softly follows the movement, and God, Francis _hates_ it, hates how perfect it is, how distracting his beautiful, long hair always is, especially during meetings, when the man is all grandiose tales and talks with everybody, turning this and that way, his perfect curls cascading on the sides of his strong, angular face, in such a maddening contrast that Francis was convinced he found ugly, and realising he finds it _charming_ instead has been incredibly disconcerting. He wants to push his fingers in it and grip it tightly and pull Fitzjames' head back, he wants to tear his cravat off and then the button of his jacket and vest and shirt and every other item of clothing he's hiding beneath.

He wants- he _wants_.

Fitzjames licks at his bottom lip and says: “Then I want it.”

Francis allows himself a grin and whispers: “Then take it.”

He can see the exact moment Fitzjames takes his decision. He swallows hard, once again, then grips Francis' jacket and pulls him harshly towards himself, so that Francis ends up leaning on the table with his forearm and one hand to avoid crushing over him. 

He can feel Fitzjames’ warm breath on his own cheek, can feel his body heat, so close yet not even coming in direct contact with him, but there he is, James Fitzjames, staring with half lidded eyes at Francis' mouth, licking his own bottom lip once, then twice, almost absentmindedly. 

"Take it." Francis says again, in a shaky murmur, because his heart is beating incredibly fast. "Take-"

Of course Fitzjames interrupts him once _again_ , only this time with his mouth, clashing on Francis’.

His mouth is the warmest, most delicious thing Francis felt in years. The feeling of it goes straight to his head and then back down to every other part of his body, focusing decidedly at the bottom of his stomach and in between his legs, because he has _forgotten_ what this was like- this, someone else's hands (big, elegant, clever hands) grasping at his jacket almost desperately, searching for a way to unfasten all those buttons in as little time as possible and-

And he has forgotten what it was like to kiss and be kissed, to feel someone else's breath catch when he nips at their- when he nips at _James'_ bottom lip, and James' breath stops and his head falls gently back and-

And Francis has forgotten the heath of another body, the way this other body moves and rubs and touches and shifts deliciously against his own- he has forgot what having a body _of his own_ feels like.

But something he hasn’t forgotten because he _did not_ know before and he’s discovering only now, is the way James' voice drops when Francis licks a long stripe on the side of his pale neck, and how his hands tighten on Francis' shoulders when he bites on that spot just under his ear and James lets go of a wonderful: "Fr- _ah_ " and then the way James feels in his hand, hard and hot and so alive it makes Francis' head spin, and he's also _wet_ and this makes Francis’ knees almost buckle, so he has to rest his weight on James, effectively pinning him to the wall. He thought he was hurting him, because James groans, so Francis forces himself back, but is immediately stopped by James' hands and one of his legs hooked behind him to keep him close and by his broken whimper: "Francis. Yes," and then, " _More_."

He discovers that he loves looking at James’ face, twisted in pleasure, especially when Francis spits in his own hand to make the friction easier and James squeezes his eyes shut and lets his lips part, hot breath coming in short puffs synchronized with Francis' strokes.

He discovers that James is almost perfectly silent when he reaches his peak, but that a serie of violent spasms goes through his body.

Lastly, Francis discovers that James has a liquid kind of gaze in his eyes, after having been satisfied. It makes him look so much more real than the peacock version of himself he always presents the world. 

He makes Francis want to kiss him.

So he does: he doesn’t pull or yanks at James anymore, doesn’t even touch him, but simply leans toward him, waiting for a sign of rejection - that does not come, because James is still dazed, and is following Francis’ movements with sleepy eyes (how good he would look in a proper bed, right now) and doesn’t stop Francis when he places his mouth on his, and not even when he kisses him the way he has kissed his past lovers: with care and intention, licking at his bottom lip instead of biting at it, feeling his soft exhale on his own lips. It’s slow and completely different from what they just did, so much that when they part, before Francis could even start to feel like he has overstepped some unspoken rule, James looks at him and _smiles_ , dazed, with his hair still in disarray because of Francis’ touches and he’s so completely different from the James Fitzjames that Francis has known up until now that it’s shocking him.

“What was this one for?” James murmurs, not moving an inch back.

“Finally shutting that mouth of yours for at least a while.”

He chuckles easily, shaking his head lightly.

They don’t say another word while making themselves presentable again, and everything is silent until a few minutes later, when James speaks again.

“The cake was a valid idea.”

Francis turns toward him, hands working on doing up the top buttons of his shirt. “You think so?”

He nods, “For the men,” he’s avoiding his gaze, “Worth it.”

Francis should say something else, something meant only for James, but nothing sensible comes to his still stunned mind, so he offers a noncommittal shrug, even if knowing very well it’s not nearly enough.

He’s still thinking about it when James gets his last waistcoat’s button in place and immediately mumbles, “I should probably leave now.”

“Stay.” Francis says, without even thinking about it. He looks at him, then the chairs, the table and the plate- “Eat your cake, James.” He says, “Enjoy it. It’s alright.”

James meets his eyes again, looking like he’s evaluating the proposal. He nods eventually, sitting down in front of Francis again. He has fixed his hair back into its usual style, but he has missed one lock, that’s still completely misplaced, laying over the rest of it, instead of behind his ear and it’s so utterly intimate that Francis can’t tear his eyes away nor can he bring himself to point it out. 

It’s alright. No one will know.

James picks the dessert fork up again, still with that same untouched piece of cake from earlier, brings it up to his mouth, then stops, turns toward Francis with a timid smile and says: “Only if you try it too.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- I actually don’t know if birthdays were celebrated when on duty, I just supposed they were not, but I could be wrong *shrug emoji* & I'm not entirely happy with how this turned out aND I'm one day early, but anyway HAPPY BDAY FITZYYY
> 
> \- [retweet](https://twitter.com/downeymore/status/1287419793579151366?s=20) & [reblog](https://caravaggiosbrushes.tumblr.com/post/624720985472614401/its-actually-cake-feeltheromance-the)
> 
> \- thank you so much for reading ♥


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